


I Never Meant to Love You

by TeyrianTimelord



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Bondlock, F/M, Implied Sherlock/Irene, Moriarty and Molly as Bond villains, PTSD, Triggers, lots of tropes, molliarty - Freeform, molly has issues, still in the works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeyrianTimelord/pseuds/TeyrianTimelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty and his business partner/girlfriend, Molly Hooper, join forces with The Woman and Raoul Silva to pull off the largest intelligence breach in British history. Molly's assignment: go undercover as a pathologist to gain the trust of the youngest Holmes brother. But like all things in a world of criminals, detectives, and spies, things don't go according to plan, and Molly comes to question everything she knows about her work and herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! After taking prompts, the one about Molly as a co-Bond villain with Moriarty just kept rattling around in my brain, so I've decided to let it grow. I recycled some elements from "The Villainess is Dead" and "Complicated" to put together this... thing. It's cheesy, unoriginal, and tropey, but I'm in love with it.  
> Enjoy, my lovelies!

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital- 2004_

What did I do? What did I do? What did I do?!

            The words kept repeating over and over again in Molly’s brain, swirling and thrashing around against the walls of her inner skull until the pounding pain was nearly unbearable. Her vision was starting to blur into hazes of white and black and red. Red. So much red. Ungodly amount of red. It was only when her hands started shaking that she realized the dripping scalpel was still in her hands. Scalpels were supposed to be smooth metal, but it only felt sticky and hot on her palm. She didn’t mean to. She had only meant to fend him off. She forgot she was still holding the surgical tool when she tried to push him away. There was so much pent up rage and so much unbridled fear…

            “Oh God, what did I do?!” she finally said out loud between coughing sobs rising out of her throat. “What did I do?!”

            “Isn’t that the question of the evening?”

            Molly spun to see Jim (at least, she thought his name was Jim; they had only met once at the pub) standing in the doorway to the morgue. He was wearing a pristine looking suit and black oxfords that glinted like onyx against the linoleum floor, clashing as they mixed with the garnet blood pools. His face was a perplexing cocktail of curiosity and serenity, which made Molly panic. She felt the scalpel drop from her hand as she fell to her knees next to the corpse, even more tears falling over her cheeks.

            “P-please, I, I can explain!” she begged.

            An amused smile stretched over the young man’s lips.

            “No need, my dear. I can see it all,” he purred.

            Molly winced as he nudged the head of the dead intern with the tip of his shoe so that the lifeless face was staring directly at her. His eyes were still wide in shock, mouth open in a silent scream. He was only a few years younger than she was, a straight A student almost finished with his degree. She remembered him telling her that he had two younger brothers, a step mother, and a bulldog living with him in Chiswick, and she could not stop herself from sobbing again. He didn’t deserve to die!

            Jim knelt down in front of her and gently used the corner of his finely pressed sleeve to wipe the tears from her face.

            “You’re a sweet girl, Molly Hooper. Too sweet. You were used and abused over and over again…” He trailed his finger along the line of her jaw as he spoke. “But it was finally too much. One more man tried to touch you and it was too much.”

            “How- how did you know?” she breathed

            He smiled again, but this time more sincerely. Instead of answering with words, Jim wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her back onto her feet. However, the moment he took his hands away Molly nearly fell back to the floor only for him to catch her again. It was as if her entire body was rejecting her for what she had done. She allowed herself to stay in Jim’s embrace, burying her face into the soft fabric of his jacket and letting him stroke her hair comfortingly. It was true. It was all true. But he had only slipped his hand under her lab coat! That wasn’t reason enough to kill a man! And yet she had; as if all her fury and terror had taken over, and the scalpel just happened to be in her hand.

“I’m afraid,” she finally sniffled without looking up. “I’m so afraid, Jim, I- I don’t know what to do!”

She was about to break down into hysterics when he held her out at arm’s length so to look her up and down. He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

“How would you like to never be afraid again, Miss Hooper?”

 

_Dubai, 2009_

Molly felt her jaw go slack. She should have been used to it by now, after all this time. Jim really was a romantic at heart who loved to spoil her at every turn. This, however, was extravagant even by his standards. Of course she knew the nightly price tag that came with the Royal Suite at the Burj Al Arab, and of course she knew Jim had more than enough money to reside there for months if he so chose, but Molly wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to having the greatest luxuries of the world laid at her feet. While she stood gaping in the doorway, he was lounging on the bottom few steps of the grand staircase that took up almost the entire front room.

            “Do stop gawking. The butlers might mistake you for an escort.”

            The remark sounded harsh, but Molly knew he meant well. She graciously accepted his arm when he rose, walking with him up the stairs and into the private dining room. Well, not so private. Molly was taken aback to see that two other people were sitting directly across from each other at the massive round table that consumed almost the entire room, talking quietly over a spread of  hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The first was a small woman, who sat tall and regal as if she owned the place, despite her petite form. Her raven hair was worn in a high bun that accented her chiseled face in such a way that she looked both very young and very old, and Molly was not sure if she thought she was beautiful or just striking. The other was a visibly older man only could not have been more than a few inches taller than Jim, but was larger in every other way. His broad shoulder and wide face made him look as if he could dominate the rest of them in a single swoop, but his soft grin and relaxed posture put her somewhat at ease.

            “You didn’t tell me we would be having guests,” she whispered in Jim’s ear as to not draw attention to herself since the unexpected pair had not noticed them yet.

            “The surprise will make sense soon enough, my dear,” he replied before loudly clearing his throat to announce their arrival.

            “Glad to see you both got my invitation,” he went on to say charismatically. “Allow me to introduce Molly Hooper, my business partner and _petite copine._ Molly, this is Ms. Irene Adler, dominatrix extraordinaire, and Raoul Silva, ex-MI6 and world’s foremost computer hacking expert.”

            “A pleasure,” the woman purred, swiftly rising to take Molly by the hand and do a visible full sweep of her body. The heat of her light grip made her shift uncomfortably. “Moriarty, you should have introduced us sooner.”

            Jim quickly flicked her away with an inaudible quip. Silva simply nodded in greeting.

            The butlers took away the simple appetizers as Jim and Molly took their seats and began bringing out a first course of bisque and salad. Molly was still curious as to why there were two complete strangers she had never heard of at dinner when Jim had led her to believe that they would be having a private evening together. She sat mostly in silence, observing every detail of the small talk going on between Jim and his two visitants. That was what she did best, after all, so well that it made her an asset; observing while remaining unnoticed. They chatted about the weather in various parts of the world, gossip concerning world leaders, various recent purchases. All three had similar boisterous styles of speaking that flowed so easily together, but there was an almost fake tone about it, as if they were talking in code or expecting the room to be bugged.  It wasn’t until the empty bowls were taken away and plates of roasted duck were presented that all fell silent and exchanged decided glances.

            “Well, we might as well inform the dear girl of our plan,” Irene announced, tossing Molly a flirtatious glance.

            Silva leaned forward in his chair and Jim cleared his throat once more.

            “How would you feel about taking part in the largest scale infiltration of British intelligence the world has ever seen?” he offered casually as if inviting her on a summer cruise. “Silva here has a revenge mission at hand, Irene wants the nation on its knees, and I’m just happy to help. How do feel, darling?”

            “That all depends on the logistics, I suppose,” she replied curtly, making Jim smile. He knew she never rushed into anything without knowing all the information. She might not be a criminal genius like he was, but she was thorough, to say the least. Invaluably so.

            “It’s a two-sided operation in which Irene and I target Mycroft Holmes while you and Silva target MI-6. We were originally planning to run this without you, but then a very sensitive detail came up that requires your finesse,” he explained, and slid a file across the table.

            Molly opened it to find herself staring at the face of a man whose info sheet said he was her age, but looked so much younger. He was lanky and quirkily dressed. Handsome, yes, but by no means appeared threatening. She quickly scanned the info sheet. There was no name other than “Q,” indicating that he was an MI-6 Quartermaster with most personal details locked down, which was impressive for his age, but there was nothing extraordinary other than his accelerated academics and coding developments. She raised an eyebrow at her companion.

            “What makes him so special?”

            “The man you’re looking at is Sherrinford Holmes, the youngest of the three Holmes brothers.”

            This caught Molly’s attention. Everyone who was anyone knew that Mycroft ran the British government and a significant portion of the globe almost single handedly while Sherlock, though kept under tabs, was the most skilled detective the world had ever seen. The two were a force to be reckoned with, but that was just the thing. There were only supposed to be two.

            “Fascinating,” Molly breathed, looking back down at the picture to look for a resemblance. “You have my attention; go on.”

            “This is a long term mission we’re looking at,” Jim continued. “Your subtle and unsuspecting nature makes you a prime candidate to go undercover and gain the Holmes’ trust. Your primary goal would be to recover as much information as possible from Sherrinford.”

            “Why not send Irene to seduce it out of him?”

            This made Ms. Adler giggle, and respond, “Trust me, dear, he’s not one to go for that sort of thing. My hand is reserved to be dealt against The Virgin.”

            An uneasy silence hung in the air. There was something else. Another piece of the puzzle no one was telling her. With a soundless wave of his hand, Jim instructed Irene and Silva to leave the room immediately and without question, finally leaving her alone with him. His characteristic air of amused nonchalance gave way to a wave of seriousness.

            “What else?” she prodded.

            “We need you to go back to your job at St. Bart’s as a forensic pathologist.”

            Molly felt her entire abdomen seize up as her lungs stopped taking in air. In a moment it felt as if her stomach had turned to lead, sinking painfully into her gut. A dizziness took hold of her skull and she clutched the arms of her chair with an iron grip to keep from falling over, only to find that even with the death hold her fingers were still shaking violently. All she could see was red. So much red. And those lifeless unblinking eyes… She grimaced as she fought to keep down the bile rising in the back of her throat.

            “No. No, I can’t do it,” she gasped in between shallow struggles for breath. “I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

            Though the visions of that night obscured her sight, Molly could hear Jim rise from his seat to come to her side, putting his hands on her shoulders.

            “I’ll be with you every step of the way, just two floors above you. I won’t make you do it alone, understand? I would never ask you to do something if I didn’t think you were ready. Trust me,” he assured soothingly.

            Molly took a deep breath to steady herself. He was right; she needed to trust him. It was his partnership that put the world at her fingertips, and he had never led her astray before. She might have to purchase some old textbooks and a prescription of valium, but yes, she could do it. He beamed when she finally nodded in agreement, and called for one of the butlers to help her to her room. The world was still reeling when Molly stumbled into bed. She didn’t bother to change out of her dress or take off her makeup, but just stayed reclining on the mattress with the lights on, thinking of London. Five years was a long time to be away from a place, especially if one had fled said place. The city was once her home, and she was unsure if it could ever be again. Sleep did not make itself known until nearly before dawn, but the last thing that crossed Molly’s mind before finally drifting away was ‘this time, my flat will have yellow walls, and I’m getting a cat...’


	2. Chapter 2

_SIS Building- 2011_

‘Call me. I need you. –SH’

‘Can’t. Busy. –Q’

‘Don’t care. –SH’

‘Sod off. –Q’

‘I’ll call Myc. –SH’

‘He can sod off too. –Q’

‘I’ll call Mummy. –SH’

‘I’m off at 19:00. I’ll call then. –Q’

Q wanted to put his head into his desk drawer and ask R to slam it open and shut repeatedly. After almost ten years of not speaking to his brothers, he shows up for one family Christmas and now Sherlock thinks he can text him at any hour of the day. For the love of God, it was as if nothing had changed and his older siblings were still the same socially inept control freaks they were in secondary school. Q was supposed to be working on logistics prep for the next round of Double 00 missions, not dealing with familial melodrama. He sighed and dropped his head onto his desk, only to hear a few sharp knocks on his office door.

“Come in,” he groaned, taking off his specs so he could rub his eyes. A 15 hour shift was hard enough without Sherlock bugging him.

R peaked her head in timidly. Unlike the other minions or most of the field operatives, she was hyperaware of his mental state and had an incredible talent for judging his mood without even engaging in a conversation. Perhaps it was because she would have landed in a mental hospital if MI-6 hadn’t picked her up, but that was another matter.

“More stressed than usual?” she asked as she walked in with an armful of files that she had to hold upright between her arms and her chin.

“You have no idea,” he sighed. “More requests and orders?’

“I’m afraid so.”

She dropped the massive stack of papers on his desk with a deep ‘thud’ that rattled his tea mug and the edges of his laptop. He usually would have been quite peeved by such an increased rush, but for now it at least gave him a viable excuse to blow off Sherlock. However, despite taking his own sweet time and assuring Eve Moneypenny that he was more than happy to stay late in Q-Branch (again…), his phone rang at exactly 7:02 and unsurprisingly it was his elder brother’s number on the screen. He would have stapled his own hand to the desk to keep himself from having to answer, but it was too late now.

“What the bloody hell do you want?” Q answered without bothering to offer a proper greeting.

“I need help on a case, brother dear,” Sherlock replied uncaringly, but with the same tone that always accompanied a cry for aid.

“Need I remind you that the last time I helped with a case I was almost expelled?”

“No such risks entailed this time. I’m investigating a homegrown cyberterrorist network of tech students and need you to get me past their encryptions and firewalls; nothing you can’t handle before your first cup of tea, I imagine.”

Q rolled his eyes. Sherlock had given him hell as a child for having his eyes glued to a computer screen instead of mastering deductions, yet here they were a couple decades later and oh how the tides of change had flowed. So much for Mycroft and M’s plans for Q to stay isolated from the family to better conceal his identity…

“I’ll do it, but only out of spite and you’re paying for lunch after.”

Though he couldn’t see his face, Q could picture Sherlock flashing that quick, smug smirk like he always would when he got what he wanted.

“Meet me at the morgue of St. Bart’s hospital on Tuesday at noon. I’ll bring crisps.”

Q startled.

“A morgue? And no, not crisps, real food! Sherlock, do you hear-“ he started, but his brother had already hung up.

On second thought, maybe it was a good thing they were going to meet in a morgue, because there was a good chance Q might kill him.

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

Sherlock hadn’t changed much in the near two years since Q had last seen him. The only real difference was the blond ex-army doctor who was practically glued to his hip. Rather unfortunately, his cool and pedantic demeanor had not lost its luster nor its insufferable air of condescension. The morgue was empty, save for Sherlock, his friend, and a masked employee diligently engrossed in her autopsy, but they all looked up when he walked through the double swinging doors. The room was heavy with the stale scents of disinfectant and formaldehyde, making him crinkle his nose a bit.

            “Interesting choice of meeting place,” he grumbled, again without sparing the courtesy of a greeting.

“It allows me to work with blood samples from one of Scotland Yard’s murders while you get through the firewalls. The flash drive you need is on the end of the table nearest to Molly.”

And with that, Sherlock dismissively took a seat in front of a microscope. Q was already regretting his decision to play along. He dropped his bag down on the work bench and made his way across the room to where the little black stick was waiting for him near the autopsy table. As he approached, the woman who was inferably Molly put down her tools and removed the white hospital mask covering his nose and mouth. Though he was there to do a job, Q couldn’t help but notice that she was surprisingly young (and surprisingly attractive) for a morgue worker.

“So you’re Sherlock’s little brother. It’s funny; you two don’t look that much alike.” Her voice was light and fluttery, as if she had to put great effort into what she was saying.

 “I’m Molly Hooper, by the way,” she continued, extending her hand.

Q almost took it until they both realized she was still wearing the latex gloves covered in blood from her cadaver. While he found it mildly amusing, her face flushed a bright red. He had to bite back an entertained smile as she fumbled to rip them off and throw them into a bin. Appearing a tad exhausted and more than a little mortified, she tried again and they were finally able to properly shake hands. Her skin was incredibly soft for someone who cut up dead bodies for a living.

“Q. The pleasure’s mine,” he introduced in return. “If you’ll excuse me, Dr. Hooper, I have to go accommodate the demands of my ridiculous excuse for a sibling.”

She nodded and smiled in acknowledgement before putting on a new pair of gloves and returning to her autopsy. Q quickly got to work on the flash drive. The encryptions were rudimentary enough to be effortless, but layered just enough to be time consuming. He had to admit, he was slightly impressed with the work of these university students, but they were still way beyond their ken when it came to the youngest Quartermaster in MI-6 history. As he carefully dismantled the framework of their firewall, he took the time to glance up at Dr. Hooper every so often. She was quirky, almost peculiar in her contradictions. While she was clumsy in most of her movements, and awkward when interacting with Sherlock or John, she handled her scalpel and forceps with awe-inspiring grace and skill. Her hands were steady and fingers deft, as if she was working on a piece of art. Although she glanced here and there when walking about, her eyes never once shifted from her subject. Not once during her autopsy did she appear to be anything but in total control of her body and her tools. Q couldn’t help but be fascinated by her paradoxical idiosyncrasies.

It only took a little over two hours for Q to completely break through the cyberterrorists’ firewall and set up a new network that allowed anyone with his code to access it as they pleased without causing a single detectible disturbance. Ejecting the memory stick, he tossed it into Sherlock’s lap, causing the older man to look up from his blood samples.

“You should have a good twelve hours before they notice anything’s gone amiss. Now, lunch, as agreed upon.”

“Yes, thank you, brother dear,” Sherlock stated, but instead of rising to leave simply took a credit card out of his pocket and extended it toward Q. “Just send it back when you’re done.”

Q huffed indignantly, but took the card. He didn’t really have room to complain, though. This way he at least didn’t have to deal with either playing 20 Questions, being subjected to judgmental scrutiny, or simply sitting in uncomfortable silence. He was about to gather his things and leave, but just as he tucked everything into his messenger bag, spotted Molly watching him curiously from over her cadaver, and the idea suddenly popped into his head.

“Dr. Hooper, have you had lunch yet?” he asked, causing her to startle.

“No-no I haven’t.”

“Care to join me, then? It’s on Sherlock.”

She wrung her hands nervously, causing bits of blood and embalming fluid to smear over her solid lab coat, and did not reply right away. Had the invitation somehow upset her? All he wanted was to discuss her career choices and methodologies.

“Sure,” she finally answered. “Just let me change first so I don’t embarrass you. Not that I go out at lunch wearing my work clothes when you aren’t here. I mean, you’ve always not been here, just since… let me go change.”

Q let out a chuckle as she quickly ran to the locker room while looking away to hide the returning flush in her cheeks. She was definitely irregular, but not in an estranging sense. There was something warm about her contradictions. Something intriguing.

“Good for you, mate. Molly’s a sweet and smart girl, I think you’ll like her” John said after she exited in her hurry.

“She’s also has mild social anxiety, insecurity about her appearance, unresolved childhood issues of a Freudian nature, an attraction to gay or sociopathic men, and a cat who bites strangers,” Sherlock added matter-of-factly, which earned him a punch to the shoulder from Watson.

Q threw a scowl in his direction. Even in his uni years, Q had never been one to ‘date,’ and there was a very specific reason for that. Two reasons, actually, by the names of Mycroft and Sherlock. Having a family motto like “caring is not an advantage” does not do any favors for one’s social life.

“It’s just lunch to talk about her work. I have no ulterior motives or intention.”

 

_Molly Hooper’s Flat_

“One scoop or two, love?” Molly called as she pulled the pint of ice cream out of her freezer.  

“Absolutely two! We have some serious celebrating to do tonight!” Jim called from the couch in the living room where Toby was sitting on his lap.

Molly giggled and dished out the ice cream, going so far as to dig up some chocolate sauce and sprinkles from the back of her cupboard. She usually kept a distance from the consulting cases she did with Jim. Nothing good ever came from getting too emotionally invested in your work (especially work that included theft, forgery, assassination, treason, and espionage). She usually prided herself in being a neutral and impartial observer, it was part of what made her such a good intelligence collector for him. But now it was hard to keep from feeling giddy. This was the longest and most exhausting project in which Molly had ever participated, and seemingly endless months of work were finally starting to pay off.  At long last, all those panic attacks from being back in St. Bart’s, all anxiety from taking Sherlock’s abuse, all those dreamless nights drowned in a fog of sedatives were starting to give some headway.

“Here we are! Two victory ice creams,” she announced playfully, joining Jim on the sofa and cuddling into his arms.

“To a job well done, and all the progress yet to come,” he toasted, and they clinked their bowls together in a mock cheers.

Along with the relief, Molly couldn’t help but feel proud of herself. She had never been a good actress in all her life, but there was nothing fake in playing the role of ‘Doctor Hooper;’ simply reappearing in an old skin. A very uncomfortably skin, at that. It had scared her at first, taking off the confidant and powerful mantle of assistant consulting criminal and getting back into the old lab coat of the trembling and mousy pathologist for all to see. Falling back into everything she had struggled to outgrow was like letting go of the side of a cliff and tumbling back onto the sharp ground. The worst part was, it felt so natural, as if her new self was the disguise and the frightened girl the real player. For a while she wondered if she had truly regressed, never to rise again. But after finally engaging with Q, engaging with her target, Molly once more felt fearlessly in control of her life.

“He wants to take me on a proper date next week, with dinner and pudding and everything,” she boasted through a mouthful of ice cream.

“You are doing a fabulous job,” Jim hummed.

He put his bowl down on the coffee table and brushed Toby aside so he could better take Molly into his arms, wrapping them around her waist until she was tight against his chest. She sighed in contentment. This was what could keep her going. She could suffer through everything else as long as at the end of the day she could come home to the man who made her feel, as promised, unafraid. Everything was real, and everything was right. She would singlehandedly destroy every empire and topple every regime if it meant staying in his arms each night for the rest of eternity. She fell asleep right there in the living room amidst the tangle of his embrace, but when she woke up for work in the morning, he was gone. No note. No phone call. No text.

That night, after a long day of autopsies and antics from Sherlock, she went to bed alone. Then the next night. Then the next. On the fourth, Molly cried, and took so many sleeping pills she didn’t get up until noon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all I have for tonight, dearies, but fear not! Chapter 3 is already underway. Molliarty shippers prepare yourselves ;-) Promise to have it up by the end of the week~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings of abuse and panic attacks in this chapter. Be safe with yourselves.

_Belgravia_

            Irene did not like Moriarty. Molly, she found delectable. Silva, she tolerated. Moriarty, though, he rubbed her the wrong way. She was the cat and he was the nuisance child who insisted on stroking her fur backwards and pulling her tail as if she was more a toy than a sentient being with claws and teeth. It was possible to keep the urge to scratch suppressed for now, but who knew how long that would last? Certainly not long if he kept dropping by unannounced at bizarre hours of the night. All she wanted was a midnight glass of brandy before bed, but instead of sipping it contently and snuggling up next to Kate, she was in her kitchen glaring at the man sitting on her granite countertop.

“I have an early appointment with French ambassador’s wife tomorrow and I really need to be well rested,” she snapped.

Her eyebrow twitched when she noticed Moriarty had helped himself to opening a bottle of one of her favorite vintages.

“I would have thought you’d have an appointment with Sherlock Holmes by now,” he mused over the rim of the crystal glass.

It took every ounce of willpower Irene had not to pick up the nearest object and throw it into his face.

“My half of the plan revolves around the success of my business. A girl can’t just jump from MP to Duchess without a thorough resume.” She cocked an eyebrow to emphasize her seriousness. “If you don’t trust me, get your little liaison to do it for you; or better yet, do it yourself.”

She must have struck a nerve. Before Irene even had time to blink twice, the sound of glass shattering on marble echoed around the room and Moriarty was only inches away, both hands gripping her arms so tightly the circulation to her fingers was starting to ebb. His face was burning with molten fury, and for the briefest of moments, she was frightened. Honestly frightened that she might die in her bathrobe in her own kitchen.

“You seem to have forgotten who exactly pulls the strings, and who can cut those strings if I so choose.” He leaned in even closer, his hot breath hitting her face. “When I threatened to skin you, that wasn’t just for show. Give. Me. Sherlock.”

Irene only nodded, and unconsciously took in a deep sigh of relief when he finally backed away. Without saying another word, he stormed through the shards of broken glass and walked out the front door with a loud slam. Kate appeared in the kitchen doorway almost instantly, wide eyed and panicked.

“Bloody hell, what happened?!” she asked, quickly grabbing a dustpan and broom out of the cupboard. “Are you alright, my love?”

She took a deep breath to steady herself. For the first time since first meeting Moriarty face to face in Dubai, she was starting to feel over her head. She hadn’t expected it to be easy, and she hadn’t expected her coconspirators to be nice, but she couldn’t help but wonder if her judgement had been flawed.

“I’m fine, Kate. Go back to bed. Leave it for the maid. I’ll be up in a moment.”

 

_SIS Building_

            “You’re in a rush,” James commented from his perched position on the edge of Q’s desk as the Quartermaster shuffled around to throw papers here and there into drawers and bags.

            “I am, and it doesn’t concern you,” he quipped back without looking up or stopping.

James watched his handler carefully. Q had been ‘off’ the entire day, to say the least, but not necessarily for the worse. The morning started with Bond dropping a ball of destroyed equipment in front of his work station, but instead of the usual conniption James had come to expect, Q only wave him away and tell him to take it to R. Instead of barking orders at minions and scolding the other agents in his characteristically dry style, he actually, God forbid, asked nicely with things like ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ The reserved yet powerful presence he usually commanded while on the Q-Branch floor had eased, as if he was relaxed and his mind elsewhere. Almost the whole of MI-6 had taken notice of the change in Q’s demeanor, and even M made a quick visit to evaluate the situation. Bond couldn’t help but feel as he had tumbled down some bizarre rabbit hole, and this was only a strange alter ego of the pedantic Quartermaster whose banter he had come to enjoy. What the bloody hell had happened in the seven weeks he Sao Paulo? That’s when he noticed the slight scent of cologne drifting around the young man.

“Are you going out tonight?” he asked accusingly.

“Again, like so many other things, 007, it doesn’t concern you.”

So, yes, Q actually had a date.

“What’s his name?”

Q shot him a glare.

“ _Her_ name, once more, does not concern _you._ Now, if you’ll stop prying and excuse me, I have to go and you are dismissed.”

The elevator out of Q-Branch opened to reveal Eve coming down with a weapons case tucked under her arm, and she quickly sidestepped to allow Q to switch places with her. The last view James got of him before the doors returned shut, the Quartermaster was fiddling with his specs and using his fingers to rearrange his hair. Moneypenny met Bond at his side, giving Q a perplexed look that mirrored his own befuddlement.

“What’s got his knickers in a twist?”

“A girl, apparently.”

Eve’s eyebrows knitted together.

“I thought he wasn’t interested in girls. Looks like I owe Tanner five quid.”

James didn’t know if she was serious or not, but the mental image of Moneypenny and Tanner taking bets on Q’s love life made him smirk anyway. All joking aside, though, the field operative instincts made him cautious. Q had been recruited for his genius and his focus, and he had been anything but focused today. Of course, Bond of all people understood the effects a charming woman could have on concentration, but Q was young, and despite the wisdom and book smarts that went far beyond his age, had little familiarity with keeping affection and detachment in check with one another. Moneypenny must have spotted the concern on his face.

“Christ, Bond, he’s an adult, he can take care of himself. It’s just a date. Don’t you have that Tokyo mission with 003 you need to prep for?”

 

_Molly Hooper’s Flat_

Just as Molly began applying eyeliner, she noticed him out of the corner of her eye. Her hand slipped, sending a blotted line of black down the side of her face. A week and a half. A whole week and a half he had left her alone without so much as a text message with reassurance of return. Not a night went by that she wasn’t popping valium like it was candy just to keep from throwing herself off a rooftop. Not a day past that she didn’t have to spend an hour in the St. Bart’s locker room in a weeping mess of breathless anxiety attacks. She should have been furious. He promised to be with her! But instead of screaming or shouting or crying, Molly simply dropped her makeup and ran to his arms.

“Please don’t leave me again,” she begged. “I can’t live like this without you.”

The feeling of his hand stroking her hair sent an overwhelming sense of relief around Molly’s entire body.

“I just had some things to take care of, darling.” He used two fingers to lift her chin so he could stare into her eyes. “I stopped by to make sure everything was in order. Now, you and I have work to do. I’ll be back soon.”

He went to pull away, but panic suddenly seized Molly’s chest. No, she couldn’t do this alone. She couldn’t keep pretending to be interested in this other man. She sure as hell couldn’t stay trapped in that godforsaken morgue, with Sherlock trying to manipulate her every day and constantly being reminded of what she had done. It was too much.

“No, please, Jim, don’t leave!” she pleaded, refusing to let go.

“Molly, you’re acting like a child,” he scolded. “You have your assignment. Do it.”

She only held onto his chest tighter.

“Jim, no, I can’t do this alone! You promised to stay! You promised I wouldn’t have to be afraid! Please, I-“

A sharp pang of pain shot its way across Molly’s face, strong enough to send her flying across the bathroom. She stumbled and just barely caught the shower curtain enough to break her fall against the bathtub. Still, the harsh landing against her ribs knocked all the air out of her lungs, causing her whole chest to ache. Jim was standing tall, his hand still in the fist that had struck her, glaring down at her. Almost as fast as the punch, he grabbed her by her hair and hauled her back to her feet. She couldn’t breathe, but this time it wasn’t from the landing on her ribs.

“You are only a pawn in this game. The second you stop playing your part is the second I throw you away for a better piece, do you understand?” he growled into her face.

Molly could only whimper a reply. The second he loosened the grip on her hair, she quickly backed away and huddled into the corner of the shower, covering her head with her arms. She had been here before. She knew what came next. As she braced herself, the air suddenly shifted. Instead of the harsh attack she was expecting, a gentle hand fell gingerly onto her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Molly. I didn’t mean to lose my temper.” Jim’s voice was quiet, sincere, apologetic. “I have to leave now, but I’ll always be only a phone call away, alright? Good luck, love.”

He kissed the top of her head, but Molly kept her face covered until she heard the front door open and shut. Only then did she dare to crawl out from her defensive corner. Her side still ached terribly, and trudging to the mirror she saw that a dark circle was already starting to form under her right eye. The immaculate curls she had worked so hard on were now in frizzy shambles. She glanced at the clock and sighed. She was supposed to be at the restaurant in five minutes, but it would take at least half an hour just to make herself look presentable. More than anything she just wanted to cancel and crawl into bed, but that would make Jim even angrier. Swallowing a few Advil tablets from the medicine cabinet, Molly texted Q to say that she would be an hour late, and got to work spreading concealer cream over her throbbing face.

 

_Galvin La Chapelle Restaurant_

            Molly looked breathtaking. Nothing about her was perfect. Her orange dress was wrinkled at the hem, her makeup was uneven, her hair practically glued in place with hairspray. She wrung her hands as she stood in the entryway, scanning the room for Q. He granted himself a few moments of observation before signaling her over. She looked like a nervous mess, but she was absolutely beautiful. That was her charm, he realized, her draw. How despite her misleading appearance, nothing about her was what it seemed. He finally rose from his seat so she could spot him in the dining room and so he’d have the opportunity to be a gentleman and help her into her chair.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologized meekly.

“It’s no trouble. I’m glad you made it,” he said as reassuringly as he could manage.

The waiter delivered their menus, and just like last week’s lunch, Molly looked as if she was reading over the options a hundred time each. There was no embarrassed smile this time, though. He thought it had gone well; they spent nearly an hour discussing the methods of her work and how she came by it. This time she looked truly uncomfortable. Q tugged at his collar. The last thing he wanted was to upset her. Was there something he was supposed to do? Something he was forgetting? Christ, Bond made it look so easy…

“We never talked about what you do for a living,” she finally said after a good ten minutes of painful silence.

“Government computer engineering,” he said (hopefully not too quickly). “Mostly designs and coding.”

            “Sounds boring. Oh, I mean, for someone like me. I’m sure you enjoy it, but, wait, I don’t know what you like, I mean…” She closed her eyes and paused, looking exceedingly angry at herself. “Do… do you enjoy it?”

Q wished he could tell her to relax, but knew it would be out of line. She looked terrified. Every few moments she would glance over her shoulder, and very rarely would meet his eyes. She appeared to be putting effort into small talk, but her fingers kept entangling themselves either in her dress or the tablecloth. When the food arrived, she gripped the utensils so tightly, her knuckles blanched. He half expected her to run away the moment he gazed another direction. After almost an hour, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Molly, you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.”

When she didn’t respond, he called over the check and dropped one of Mycroft’s cards on the table.

“I’m not going to stop you.”

She looked up from her plate and he was terrified to see tears just beginning to spill. He felt a quick sense of panic. Had he done something wrong? Said something wrong? Q was capable of guiding and controlling the most skilled agents in the world. The best of the Double 0s were at his disposal. There were only three people on earth he took orders from, M, Mycroft, and the Queen, and even then, if he really felt like it, he could depose them with nothing more than a few hours on a laptop. So why the hell couldn’t he keep up a date?

As Molly remained silent and her tears steadily increased, it became clear that something other than his lack of experience in dating was wrong. Other people in the restaurant were beginning to throw her sympathetic glances, while some gave him criticizing glares. Not caring about the spectacle they were starting, Q got out of his chair and knelt next to Molly. Being careful not to startle her, he cautiously took her one of her hands in his. He grimaced when he felt her shutter at the touch.

“Do you want me to take you home?” he asked quietly, and she only nodded quickly.

The cab ride back to her flat would have been silent if not for the soft sound of Molly’s sniffling. She took great care to stay as far from him as the limited space would allow. When they arrived, he considered staying in the cab and just going straight back to his place, but decided against it. Though she eyed him suspiciously, Q accompanied Molly to her door. They stood awkwardly together for a few moments, which he guessed was a better alternative to her shutting the door in his face.

“I’m sorry for ruining everything,” she murmured, wiping her face with the sleeve of her cardigan.

“You didn’t ruin anything. You’re-“

Q stopped short before he could finish the thought. As Molly pulled her thin jacket away from her face, he noticed that a large blot of cream had smeared away, leaving a large purple and yellow bruise exposed on her cheekbone. Though he realized it was by no means the appropriate thing to do, he immediately reached out and put a finger against the discolored spot. Molly shrunk away.

“It’s nothing. I slipped and hit my face on the edge of a table. I’m clumsy,” she defended quickly.

It’s nothing. I slipped. I fell. I’m clumsy. I’m a klutz. Q knew those words. Suddenly everything from the day they met until now made sense.

“Molly, who did this to you?” he asked earnestly.

“I said, it’s nothing.”

“Please, I want to help.”

“You can’t!” she shrieked, wrapping her arms against her shoulders as if she was expecting an attack. “There’s nothing you can do! There’s nothing anyone can do!”

Her entire body started to tremble violently, and she leaned on the doorframe to keep from collapsing. The normal breaths she was taking quickly deteriorated into short, hyperventilating gasps. Post-traumatic stress induced panic attacks were something he saw on a weekly basis in operatives returning to Medical after a long mission out, though he never had to address it firsthand. He knew he had no right to touch her again, but he couldn’t just leave her out in the dark either…

Q slowly put his arm around Molly’s waist to steady her. Fortunately she was too focused on trying to breathe to object this time, and the key to her flat was in the pocket of her dress. Opening the door with one hand, he managed to urge her on enough to get her into the living room and onto the sofa. He could feel her hands starting to knot into his shirt.

“It’s alright, just breathe,” he whispered, staying at her side. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Just breathe.”

He didn’t know how long they sat there, but it was long enough for Molly to finally calm down. After a few more minutes of catching her breath, she finally came to, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. Q checked his watch. Christ, it was already past midnight and they both had work in the morning. Molly stared at him curiously, and he had to suppress a yawn.

“Thank you for staying,” she said sheepishly. “And… sorry for lashing out at you.”

Q gave her a reassuring smile and rose to his feet with a small stretch.

“Don’t be afraid to call if you need anything at all,” he offered.

He had not intended to say more, but then it dawned on him that she probably would never call. Q quickly added, “It was a pleasure to have met you, Dr. Hooper.”

He was already half way out the door when she quipped, “wait!” When he turned to answer, her hands were on both side of his face and her lips just barely brushed against his.

“I’ll call you after work tomorrow.”

 

_Molly Hooper’s Flat_

“That was an absolutely amazing performance! Couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

“It wasn’t a performance,” Molly grumbled, hugging her pillow tighter. “You left. I was upset. I did my job.”

She shifted as Jim curled into bed next to her. He said he was sorry, and she believed him, but she still couldn’t stop herself from cringing at his touch.

“Either way, you make a spectacular leading lady.”

Molly supposed it was better to be a ‘leading lady’ than a pawn. Jim fell asleep almost right away, but she stayed up for hours, thinking about Q. He had been gentle, understanding, offering of solace. It felt almost exactly the same as when Jim found her in the morgue. It was a shame that it had to be this way; her the predator and he the victim. It almost wasn’t fair. But as Jim had reminded her, she had a job to do.

Still, the last thought that crossed her mind wasn’t Jim or the mission. It was Q, and the way his warm skin felt under her hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking two more chapters will be coming out for this one. I have almost all the ideas in my head, now I just need to get them down on paper and decide the ending. Comment if you have any suggestions or things you want to see =)


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